He Will Always Wonder
by LESbiansMISunderstood
Summary: "He was right, and they both knew it. He didn't need it confirmed and she was too proud to deny it." Éponine and Enjolras and their, for lack of a better word, relationship. One-shot. Modern AU. Different POVs. Rated M (smut).


_A/N:_

_Hello, I'm LESbiansMISunderstood, and I hope you enjoy this oneshot!_

_((also published on my tumblr.))_

* * *

**Pairing:** E/É

**Words: **6K+

**Warning:** Contains _swearing_ and _sexual themes (smut)_, mentions of _abuse_.

**Beta:** Mary and Raquel (last edited by me 19/09/13)

**Type:** Modern AU

* * *

_"The next time that I caught my own reflection _  
_ It was on it's way to meet you _  
_ Thinking of excuses to postpone  
__ You never look like yourself from the side  
__ But your profile did not hide  
__The fact you knew I was approaching your throne"_

Crying lightling - Arctic Monkeys

_(listening to this song was how this fic began, I strongly recommend this song!)_

* * *

I would like to thank two lovely people;

Mary (AliceInSomewhereland) who pushed my 1k fic to become this 6k+, who encouraged me to explore this relationship further, and for letting me bounce ideas with her.

Thank you :D 3

and Raquel (aatveitt on tumblr) who helped me with my grammar and gave me an outsider's second opinion and let me rant about it on skype (so sorry!).

Thank you :D 3

You are both amazing women who inspire me and make me smile.

I would also like to thank all the ladies on the forum for their continued support for each other, making me feel safe enough to keep shipping.

* * *

He sat down next to her, looking over at her profile as she popped another gobstopper into her mouth. Oh, how he despised those gobstoppers. He felt tired and was dreading his next move, trying to postpone it, but knowing he shouldn't. She started talking, as she always did, commenting on anything from the weather to the fugley cardigan of the preppy woman (her words) who walked past.

He could see the wistful look in her eyes. And he knew she couldn't afford a cardigan, no matter if it was modern or old fashioned. She never told him this of course, she never told him anything personal ever, but he could tell. Ever since he had met her, almost nine months ago, he had been able to read her.

She had difficulties hiding her smirk. He was standing stoically on the other side of the room, jaw set and scowling at her. He was angry and he evidently tried to hide his anger and frustration behind his stony mask. (Key word being; tried. The tension was rolling off him in powerful waves that Éponine had a hard time ignoring. Oh, the possibilities she had with this one.) This blonde, frustrated angel was obviously not used to other people being in the spotlight, at least he was not used to his friends listening so someone other than him. She had seen him before. Holding speeches for them in the café and talking to random strangers in the streets, telling them what was wrong with society and expecting them to take action. As if.

She knew his friend, Marius, who was one of the few boys who'd been played in her little game (but was too oblivious to realise it) and sort of stayed her friend. She decided to move onto his friend with the curly hair, Courfeyrac, who she thought knew how to play this game very well. So she accompanied Marius to the political meetings to get in touch with the dark haired Womaniser. But after only three meetings, she'd had enough. These privileged boys had no clue what the fuck they were talking about, and that golden leader of theirs was the worst. Courfeyrac was too nice and too casual to be played and he wasn't really worth it. She'd be dammed if she made an effort for a man who wasn't even exciting for her. She just hoped he would fucking realise he was bi and just make out with the flowery poet that he spent so much time with. They would be very happy together.

But even after she decided Courfeyrac would just become another Marius to her, she still came to the meetings. She couldn't resist coming with small comments and little jokes to every point the leader made. And he might be charismatic, and able to hold the attention in the room like a beacon of light and power, but she was charismatic too. A bit more subtle in her charm, but still able to rival his with her bluntness and contrasting warmth. Oh, and her humour, of course, which wasn't hard to rival seeing as he had none. (Though she swore she had seen the flash of a smirk after one of her earlier comments about Marius, but that was before she started attacking him.)

She caught the other boys' attention, made Joly laugh, Grantaire snigger and Bossuet spill his pint with the effort to hide his mirth. Their leader excused himself to go the bathroom, to lick his wounds and bandage his pride, and when he returned she had already wrapped his boys around her little finger.

She keeps at it. Telling lies and wielding words. She might not be as eloquent as him, but she knew what to say to trap someone in her carefully woven web. Sometimes she didn't even know what the truth was herself, having been forced to weave from the day her father moved them to this part of the city.

So it surprises her when he stays behind, only to sit himself opposite her and call her out on her bullshit.

He never knew what made him stay that night. What urged him to confront her when they were alone. But it gave him a kick, and it felt good to finally have someone fight back.

"What, and your little 'speech' wasn't all bullshit either?" she deflects.

"No."

"Really?" she scoffed, "oh well, you know what, I don't care. Now why don'cha just go home, twat, you look tired and you better get out of this side of town before your white-preppy-arse is mugged, or stabbed or whatever. Which it will be, if you keep shoving your bullshit in people's faces!"

He was not from the same shitty neighbourhood as her; it didn't take a genius to figure that out. She was scantily clad in a summer dress and knee length, well-worn socks. Her leather jacket had seen better days and her boots looked like they belonged to her father. And here he was, in his red cashmere cardigan, dress shirt and a black tie, and a warm wool coat to protect him from the weather outside. Her clothes looked more appropriate for a mild autumn day, not freezing February. He felt pity for a split second, but the look on her face made it clear that pity was not a wanted nor needed emotion.

So he got angrier instead. How the hell could she sit there and mock his cause, when she would be one of those to benefit the most from it! She needed to see that this was not just some silly little study group!

She was annoyingly shoving pick'n'mix into her mouth, licking her lips and pouting that soft flesh. He wondered for a second how soft they were, and whether or not they would taste like the strawberry lace she was sucking on. And then he wondered what they would feel like if they sucked something else- No. This girl might have a pretty face, but he needed to focus and make her see the truth. He had time for such distractions later. So he looked away from the pursed lips and refocused on her narrowed eyes, pondering where he should stick his verbal assault.

And he stuck it where it hurt.

"I believe in myself. I spoke the _truth_ about our shitty little country and I stand by everything I said. But _you_ aren't even sure if you believe your _own_ tales half of the time."

He was right, and they both knew it. He didn't need it confirmed and she was too proud to deny it. So instead she looked him up and down, checking him out, making it obvious and him uncomfortable. She took in his cold blue eyes, red cardigan and brand new designer jeans. Apparently the only thing about him that was not clean, neat and well, perfect, was his messy blond hair. She leant back and a mocking smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She wanted to play and this boy would be a challenge, and she was already changing tactics, and pretending not have registered his accusations.

"And you wonder why your mates never ask you to get a pint with them after the meetings…"

"What?" he looked confused and quickly schooled his features to hide it.

"Your mates, well, they are not really your _mates_, are they?"

"Of course they are-"

"You're more like their boss, or that one annoying bitch in school who everybody had to invite to their birthdays because their mum was the head."

"It's not like that."

"It may not be, but I would totally get it if it was. Because you've got this wall around you, closing off other people, making it difficult to have a personal conversation. As if knowing your mates will distract you from your glorious purpose. Am I right?"

He said nothing. And she scoffed, a cruel set to her lips as she continued.

"I haven't spotted a friendly bone in your body in the last couple of days I've seen you! You never even introduced yourself, because you're so arrogant! Not everybody knows your name, _sir_. And you think you're right and everybody who doesn't agree with you are wrong, and you just stand there in all your stony glory and expect people to just follow you blindly? I am sorry prat, but I'd rather drink with my mates than discuss politics with you, yah cold bastard."

She had been dying to tell him off since he first opened his mouth. And it felt good to finally do it. He stood frozen, stony faced and she raised her eyebrows at him, challenging him to prove her wrong. Instead, he sighed and pushed himself away from the table he had been leaning on, sitting straight in his chair, within his hands in his lap, staring at them while considering her words. She was unsure how to play him from here, because he had gone and fucking done something unpredictable, again.  
She kept up the eye contact, expression still challenging him to defend himself. After a few moments of this, something changed in his calculating gaze, and he suddenly took on a more hostile expression. Finally.

"You're mistaken if you're thinking I've never been called cold before." He said calmly and stood up, towering over her. The energy radiating off of him made her spine tingle as his eyes burned into hers. A blue flame lighting up his eyes and making him seem much more alive even though he spoke calmly and his face was passive, and he looked almost bored. Almost, because she could easily see that he was not. His eyes were blazing, his hands shook and the corner of his mouth twitched, and she smirked. She was in control.

He was not used to girls having this straight-on approach when communicating with him, especially not this straight-on _mean_ approach. They usually blushed, twirled their hair and agreed with everything he said. Nodding along without comprehending a single thing he was trying to discuss with them. But Éponine met him head on. All the while, chewing on her pick'n'mix, almost driving him to distraction with her sucking, lip licking, lip smacking, and somehow speaking articulately around her gobstoppers. And it annoyed him that she did it so effortlessly, sometime paying more attention to which sweet she would eat next, but keeping track with what he was saying.

Her arguments were infuriating and personal, and somehow also on track with his cause, sometimes said as casually as if they were discussing the weather, and sometimes a biting remark almost hissed at him. The way she managed the perfect symphony of well-balanced, various approaches made him feel more alive than he had in a long time. It was a rare skill, but she must've been the master of it, because Enjolras had never had a debate this intense before. He didn't even sit back down, feeling like he needed something above her, if not his debate skills, then some sort of physical demonstration of authority. It was subconscious at the time, but he felt better when he could look down at her, because he had difficulties talking her down. He sort of irrationally felt this evened things out.

When she stood as well, and poked his chest with every word, half of him wanted to see how this discussion would end with them, and half of him wanted to leave because he could clearly see he was not going to win against this stubborn girl. The tension in the air was almost tangible.  
He ended up staying, silent and pressed up against the wall with her finger digging into his chest. For a second, the only thing he could hear was their heavy breathing and the rush of blood in his ears. Then he made up his mind, he wanted to, no, needed to find out what he had been thinking of the whole evening. He needed his question answered. It was important. It was for the sake of ridding his mind of distractions, which he needed right now.

She beat him to it, because before he had time to finish making his mind up, her lips were already on his, and her soft lips really did taste like strawberry lace.

Their argument ended with a shag in the loo.

The next time he met her, she was having a fight with the ice-cream man. It was raining and the argument was about whether the chocolate ice-cream really did taste better when it was 'fucking overpriced and shit', and he made his way over with his red umbrella. Her dark hair looked almost black and hung limply down her back, she must have been freezing in this downpour, especially since it was still that time of March when the rain could turn to snow any second.

He didn't know why, but there was something about her that made her different, refreshing, and irresistible. Thinking of her hair the last time they met, brown curls tangled in his hands and spread over her bare shoulders and she moaned into his mouth, he made his way over and offered to walk her home.

She told him to fuck off, but still accepted his invitation to share his umbrella. Dramatically sighing and telling him that he needed to start associating himself with other colours.

"But I like red."

"Don'cha think red is a little… over the top?"

"What do you mean? Red is a great colour." he said in his usual No-nonsense tone that made most people shrug and leave the subject alone. Not Éponine though

"It's just that it's a bold colour, innit? Like you're screaming for attention or summat."

"I am not."

"Yeah, you are." she snatched his umbrella from him, ignoring his protests and put on a rather posh accent.

"Oooh look at me." She said and started strutting, using his umbrella as a peacock's tail-or-fan-or-whatevuuuur-is-it-even-called-omg-l ife-is-hard-without-internet.

"Look at me, me, me, all high and mighty and articulate and 'greater than thou, whilst I for preacheth my cause for the people of this patria.'" She did a pretty good imitation of his tone, he would have to admit, but luckily she couldn't keep it up any longer before she burst out laughing. Judging by the gasps in between laughs and the finger pointing at him, his face was the reason why.

"That is not what I sound like. Now quit it and give that back." He grabbed his umbrella and hid underneath it again. His hair had gotten wet and it would be impossibly messier by the time he would get home. She latched herself onto his arm and bumped her hip against his.

"My point was that just 'cause you are used to red, and you think it suits you, and its patriotic and whatnot. It shouldn't stop you from wearing, I don't know, green or whatever, like once in a while."

"Is this some sort of metaphor shite, because I am not getting it."

She smiled secretively at him. "It might be, guess it and perhaps I'll tell you."

So he guessed.

He guessed wrong of course and ended up in a heated debate about slut shaming. How they got from the colour red to slut shaming, he will never be able to explain. Outside the café, he stopped to ask her where she lived, he had offered to walk her home after all, and he was not keen on separating just yet.

"Why don't we just go back to your flat...?"

So they walked, they discussed, they fought, they fucked.

They repeated this too many times to count during the next three months.

He guessed he knew almost everything there was to know of her. Her likes and dislikes, favourite books, tv series, what songs made her happy and what jokes would set her off and show him those adorable dimples... he knew nothing about her past though, not completely and not for sure. Everything he knew, he had to guess, because she still hadn't told him anything personal about herself. The most personal detail she had revealed was that she was mildly allergic to peanuts.

"And prats, so you better keep your distance!"

But even that tiny detail had changed his lifestyle. He no longer ate Reese's Pieces and his cupboard, which used to be perpetually stocked with peanut m&m's, was now stocked with bags of pick'n'mix, skittles and mars bars. Éponine didn't smoke, and she rarely drank, but she went through bags of pick'n'mix like a panda goes through bamboo shoots.

He didn't approve of her drug of choice, even though he always stocked up for her sugar addiction, he was always making healthy dinners in case she ate at his place, (that was another way she had an impact on his life) but he kept those opinions to himself. One simply doesn't get between Éponine and her pick'n'mix.

Who was he to judge anyway. She was his drug, his enigma. No matter how hard he tried to play along to her little games, tried to get to know the girl behind the mystery, he didn't succeed. And after it had gone on for six months, he needed out.

But it was a vicious circle. She was drowning, and she liked it. And it was drowning him too. He needed to get out before it was too late, but he knew he had passed that point five months ago, when she stayed over for the first time, and he realised he loved her.

She felt so warm and comfortable, and something smelled really good. It was a familiar and clean scent, something fresh and comforting that she smelled all the time but couldn't quite put her finger on in that moment. Thinking this must be a dream, she opened her eyes, only to be more bewildered. This was not her crappy bed, and the walls were a nice white colour, with no stains and it didn't smell mouldy. The sheets she was sleeping on were clean and warm and the matrass was soft. And she had a warm arm wrapped around her. It took her a second of panicking before she realised she must've fallen asleep after sex. Something she never did as a rule.

Enjolras might be infuriating, but he was also the best stress release she'd ever had. And scarily enough, she found that she didn't mind waking up in his bed-it was damn comfortable. She turned around, carefully as to not wake him up, and took him in. If she had found him hot before, now he was absolutely adorable. His face was completely relaxed and his mouth was slightly ajar and even though he, luckily, wasn't snoring, he was drooling just a little bit. The contrast between his childlike expression and the stubble was amusing, but kind of worked for him.

She moved a hand to push his hair back from his face, but as she was about to rake her fingers over those beautiful curls, he muttered something in his sleep and tightened his arms around her, and she felt trapped. She hadn't stayed the night anywhere since things ended with 'Parnasse, and never had she felt this damn safe with any of her exes.

And she didn't want that. She had never wanted that. This was just a tension release, a good time and a few hours of forgetting about her shitty life.

She was frozen, one hand hovering above his head, and body rigid. He hadn't woken up when she turned over, but her rigidness made him open his eyes and squint at her. She quickly dropped her hand and turned back over; hoping to feign sleep and make him think it was her turning over that woke him.

It must have worked, because she could hear his breathing returning to those calm and deep breaths. She needed to get out of here, but she didn't want to risk waking him up. And his arms were so fucking comfortable and the bed just so fucking warm, so against her better judgement, she fell back to sleep.

An hour or so later, she woke up to see him studying her face with a smile on his lips. She had apparently turned back around to face him in her slumber, because they were lying face to face, even closer than before. And it was such a romantic cliché that she felt sick.

"G'mornin" he said, voice still groggy with sleep, his hand stroking her bare back, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on her shoulder blades.

"Not as articulate in the mornings, are yah?" she teased, needing to make this more playful.

"Get shtuffed" he muttered rolling his eyes and shoving her a little, but still grinned at her. She looked into his eyes and saw something there, something deeper than playfulness, something more meaningful than lust.

And it scared her shitless.

Thankfully, she was saved by the bell, literally. He muttered something that could've been "bloody fuck" and reached over her to turn his alarm off.

She wriggled herself loose from his embrace and ducked out from under his arm to get up. After hurriedly getting dressed and grabbing a bag of skittles from his cupboard as breakfast, she left his flat. He had barely padded into the kitchen, wearing his boxers and a confused expression, before she slammed his front door, only sparing a second to send a quick apologetic smile over her shoulder.

But despite her hasty exit, he didn't comment and she started staying the night. The hasty exits in the mornings became fewer and he even managed to make her eat something other than sweets for breakfast, sitting in his pyjama trousers and sipping his coffee as he did the crossword in his head while he waited for her to finish her eggs. And she didn't mind, because the eggs were good, his glorious hair was still in disarray from the night before and she still had her pick'n'mix after she finished.

But the two next months, they had spiralled downwards. He got angry when he couldn't read her better than he could the day before. And every day that passed when he didn't find out something new about her, his frown set in, and the sex got rough. She had no complains about their physical relationship, she liked his rough edge. He realised that, When he saw her triumphant smirk as he pinned her to his fridge and wrapped her legs around his hips, angrily shoving her knickers aside and rattling the fridge so bad when he shagged her that he broke a jar of jam and cracked a few eggs. And that was a new piece of information that made their next shag sweeter, all whispered words, patient hands and throughout tongue. Slow but ecstatic, with a lot of eye contact. And the _feelings _involved made her feel uncomfortable. Feelings made her scared, and were luckily not his forte.

So they play it safe, not mixing any emotions into their (for lack of better words) relationship. Not even after the seventh month since they first fucked, when she showed up on his doorstep, covered in bruises and carrying a duffel bag full of clothes. He doesn't need to ask; he just nods, opens the door wider and clears out his two top drawers while she gets out his first aid kit. His jaw is clenched and he is silent for the rest of the night, and for that she is grateful.  
This was also the first night they just held each other, no kisses, no caresses, just holding on for dear life as they both stayed silent and listened to each other's heartbeats..

His mates call him crazy, they tell him she's crazy, that she's nuts, cold, impossible and utterly uninviting. This was a huge contrast to how they felt about her in the beginning. Wasn't it Joly who told him how funny she was? Or Grantaire who said he needed someone to argue back? Wasn't it Combeferre who had insisted that Éponine was just the kind of thing he needed? He knows she isn't even half as bad as they've come to think. But he doesn't deny that she is bad for him, because he knows she is.

But he still loves her, damn it.

He hates it when she picks fights. Not with him, though. When they fight, it is like foreplay, and he feels more content after, in their calm post-sex haze. But he hates it when she fights with strangers. He used to think of it as endearing, one of the cute little things that made her Éponine. But when she picks fights with pimps, ex-boyfriends, whores, and dealers in her old neighbourhood, he feels scared. She obviously gets an adrenaline kick out of it, and she can hold her own, because this is her hobby. She manipulates and argues and comes out on top every time. And she thrives, while tearing others down. But he can see the potential danger in picking these fights, and he is on unfamiliar ground, and he is Enjolras, he likes being in control of situations, something he can't always be for her.

But the reason he hates it most of all is because she makes him feel like just anyone else.

In the beginning, he had thought she bragged and lied to others, and fought with him, that he was special and he was her equal and the only one that could keep up with her. But as their seventh month "together" came to an end, he started thinking that maybe they weren't on equal ground after all. It's as if they are back to their first fight, and she easily has the upper hand while he is compensating and reaching and working hard to keep up.

Maybe she is playing that sick little mind game of hers with him, and he is only guessing at what she is really like, without hitting any marks. It wasn't as if they discussed his revelations about her, but something in her eyes told him he was right.

Something in her eyes told him she wasn't playing.

She was struggling for air, and he kept trying to rescue her. But she didn't want to accept his help. As the eighth month comes to an end, she starts spending more nights out than in their bed. And he is thinking maybe he can finally float, maybe he can let go and save himself, but then she comes back. She always does, and he can't find it in him to ask her to stay away.

"Éponine?"

Oh shit. She freezes, still in the middle of taking off her coat. Enjolras never stays up waiting for her, he might lay awake until she comes back, or fall asleep at his desk, but never would he wait up for her in the living room. From the tone of his voice, he has obviously been up and worrying for quite a while now.

"Éponine, it's almost morning. Shit, its five o'clock, for some people _this is morning_!"

Fuck. She would have to have this conversation sooner than she'd like. Ideally, she wouldn't like to have this conversation at all, but the Gods weren't helping her today.

Of course they wouldn't help her _today_, today. But she needed more time... and a clearer head.

"Have you been drinking?" was his next question, but she didn't deign it with an answer. Of course she'd been drinking, it was _today_.

She removed her coat slowly and hung it on the peg. It usually nagged him that she threw it over the back of the sofa, and he would always pick it up and hang it for her, making a big deal out of it. Better not to anger him more than necessary. She threw her scarf over the sofa though, still having the urge to rub him the wrong way.

She turned towards him, he was wearing his pyjama trousers and a unreadable expression on his face, as if she was a complete stranger. Oh please don't let him choose _today_ to deal with his insecurities.

She didn't say anything, but she kept shedding items of clothing, and laying them where he would least like it. She left her jumper over his chair, her shirt over his lamp, her jeans over his silly phone table, her socks on his ottoman and on the floor in front of him. In the end, she stood in front of him in her underwear and pressed her fingers on his bare chest, pushing him backwards into his bedroom.

_Tonight_ she didn't just want him, she needed him. She needed him to make her feel safe, and wanted, and all good inside. She needed to forget about her shitty night and what that man had almost done to her. She wanted to forget how the knife flashed in the light from the kiosk on the corner. She might have gotten drunk at the pub, but the run-in with her old dealer in the alley had gotten her –mostly – sober again. And now it hurt. It hurt, because _tonight_ was the night her brother had died three years ago. And she knew only Enjolras had the power to make the hurt go away, if only for a little while.

He protested at first, and it almost brought tears to her eyes, because damn it, she needed him and it had taken a lot for her to even admit that to herself, and she could never make herself admit it to him.

So she persisted, stroking his chest and scratching his back, trailing kisses and whispered pleas from his mouth to his shoulder and back up to that spot under his jaw that always made him groan. And when he did, she moaned his name back, and she actually got tears in her eyes when she felt him responding, spinning her around and pressing her against the bookshelf. She dragged his trousers down, as he reached under her knickers, and she could barely complete her task as his fingers instantly found that magical rhythm, pumping into her relentlessly, making her knickers (and his hand) soaking wet.

Her knickers came off, her bra fell to the floor with it and she couldn't help the moans that escaped her as she let her mind go blank, only focusing on his hot mouth on her breast and his thumb on her clit. She dragged his head up again, desperately needing his kisses more than oxygen. And she moved her hands to hold onto his shoulders for purchase as she wrapped her legs around him so that she could get closer.

He grabbed her bum with one hand, and the back of her head with the other before he walked them over to the bed, never breaking their kiss. And, god, she loved it when he was in control like this. They fell on the bed together and after wasting a few seconds fumbling with the fucking condom, he was finally inside her.

It felt like heaven. The way everything was exciting and new, and rough, but still familiar and so sweet and soft, the way he was panting her name, the way he was keeping up his quick pace. It all drove her to the edge. She came with a cry, either shouting his name or a profanity, she neither knew nor cared. Enjolras kept going for a few seconds, letting her ride out her orgasm before he came with her, crying both her name and a profanity.

An hour or so later, she looked at his alarm clock, seeing as it was only five minutes until it would ring, she decided to save the conversation for another day, and closed her eyes.

It didn't ring though, and she woke up around noon to see him lying next to her, not touching, but staring at the ceiling with his arms crossed.

"Good morning." He said curtly. He was articulate, which meant he was wide awake, and probably hadn't slept more than a few hours. She looked pointedly at the alarm clock before asking.

"Shouldn't you be gone by now?"

"I could ask you the same."

"Ouch?"

He narrowed his eyes at her sarcasm. When it was clear that she wasn't going to give in first, he sighed and sunk further into his pillows.

"It's Sunday, I have Sundays off, you know that."

Shit. It was Sunday. The conversation was going to happen now.

"I sometimes have places to be and people to see, but I don't today… not now anyway."

He crossed his arms and his stomach made one of those dying whale noises.

"Look, I have to tell you summat but before that, I need chocolate, and you need breakfast."  
She rolled out of bed and put on one of his green button down shirts and her knickers, before she made her way into the kitchen, making him toast and coffee as he picked up her clothes from where she had draped them all over the night before and folding them for her.

She was having her odd breakfast combination of toast and a mars bar, and he was sipping his coffee when she finally told him.

"My name ain't Jondrette."

"What?" he looked up from his crossword puzzle, and dropped his toast, coffee mug still at his mouth.

"My name is not Jondrette. I'm called Éponine, alright, but my last name ain't Jondrette. It isn't even mum's maiden name. Papa made it up long ago, along with like fifteen others, and Jondrette is the one that fewest people know _him_ as." She shoved the last of her mars bar into her mouth, giving him time to process this.

"Anyway," she said, refilling his coffee cup when he returned it to the table. "My real name is Thérnardier. With an accent over the first E, like in Éponine." She put her plate in the sink and threw the mars wrapper in the bin. She had to make it to the hospital before the visiting hours were over, she had promised Azelma last night, and she never broke her promises to Azelma. She shimmied into her jeans from last night and put her hair up in a bun. Not bothering to freshen up more, and simply stuffing her neatly folded clothes back into her bag. She avoided looking at him, the look in his eyes made her uncomfortable and scared shitless. And most importantly; it made her feel so utterly guilty about everything she put him through. And she had long since realised that she cared more for his feelings than any other man's.

"I'll see you tonight." She kissed his cheek and left, taking his spare key with her.  
despite herself she glanced at his face before closing the door behind her, and he looked like he was caught between being excited, scared, happy and doomed. All in all, it looked uncomfortable, but somehow hopeful.

Silly boy… she won't change just because he knew her last name. Au contraire, once a Thénardier, always a Thénardier.

The guilt was still eating at her.

She has finally told him something about herself, something that she hadn't told anyone else. A piece of information that also confirms most of the things he guessed about her, and he thinks maybe there is still hope.  
But he is just treading water, because she doesn't change, and the hope she gave him, was just the smallest piece of herself she could give, that would still be big enough to keep him around.

So now he is doing what he has to do. It is the only way. He needs to get out. He needs to find the motivation to swim and leave her to drown without him.

He has to do the only thing he knows will get rid of her.

So here they are and she is sitting on the park bench next to him, chatting away about everything and nothing. Paying more attention to the gobstoppers than to him, she hasn't even looked over at him yet.

He had been thinking of excuses to postpone doing this, he had caught his own reflection in a shop window on his way over, and seeing his own uncertainty left his resolve weak, but when he approached her, and she didn't even bat an eyelash, acting all superior as if she planned his every move, his mind was made up again and his resolve was once again firm.

She finished her gobstoppers and got up to toss her pick'n'mix bag in the bin. He seizes the opportunity. She turns around to walk back to the bench, but stops, eyes wide, because he is down on one knee, and the little blue ring box is open in his sweaty palms.

"Éponine," he croaks, before collecting himself again. He is Enjolras, the man of marble, the man of words, the man of confidence. He is the chief, and he is in control of the situation. So he starts over, voice firm this time.

"Éponine, I love you." He also is the man of not-beating-around-the-bush. "I need you. Please. Will you marry me?"

There is a minute where neither breathes, a moment of tension and complete quiet. And it could almost be a dream. But then he hears the distant rumbling of a storm brewing, and the illusion is broken, he is still kneeling in the mud and the snow, and she looks livid.

And she leaves, like he predicted, and he is left alone at the bench, mad at himself for being disappointed. He knew she would flee, that was the plan after all, and he never intended to actually marry her, so he is surprised to realise that it was what he actually wanted.

He wanted her, he wanted her to be his, to love him back, and call him hers.

He wanted her to say yes.

And all it took him to realise that was for her to say no.

(He is also mad at himself for not realising it before. He actually spent days looking for that perfect ring, and deep down he knew that if it honestly was just an escape, he would not have put so much thought into it.

But if she'd said yes, he wanted her to wear this ring.)

Hours later, the storm breaks out. Thunder, lightning, hail and wind finally shake him out of his sombre pondering. And after what he deems enough time, he trudges home, hoping to feel that relieved feeling all his mates explained to him. That feeling described as lighter than sunshine, and freer than a bird. But he arrives at his front door and the feeling still isn't there.

But he is stubborn, and no matter what the price he might pay is, he is not regretting saving himself.  
It comes as no surprise to him when she is absent from the apartment, nor that the two top drawers are empty, but it still hurts.  
What does surprise him however is the envelope laying on their –his now – telephone table, the table she had ridiculed so much that they had shagged on it more times than any other piece of furniture combined (except the bed). His name is written on the envelope in her hasty scribble. He picks it up with shaking hands and opens it, pulling out the card carefully.

Lightning strikes, and his tears finally escape with a heartbroken sob. Because she is gone, and she has left him five words. He shouldn't have been this surprised though;

"I love you too.  
-Éponine"

Because she always has to have the last word.

* * *

Sorry!

and so sorry for any and all mistakes and confusing POV changes (that seem natural to me)

I never said this had a happy ending...

_((though I am currently working (very slowly, like snail pace for snails) on a sequel or two.))_


End file.
